


Master Boyd's Opus

by monaboyd_archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-29
Updated: 2004-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7728907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monaboyd_archivist/pseuds/monaboyd_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dominic liked to watch William.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Master Boyd's Opus

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Shirasade: this story was originally archived at the [Monaboyd.net Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Monaboyd.net), which was closed in September 2014 due to software issues and a lack of new submissions for several years. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2014. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Monaboyd.net Archive collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Monaboyd_Archive/profile).

He could spend countless hours staring at William, wondering what magic transpired behind those blank eyes of his. He'd spend hours in front of his well-loved piano, fingers caressing the ivory like one would love a secret lover, and then he’d tilt his head, just a touch to the side, his lips settling into a thin line.

Then he’d begin to play.

Such music the known world had never heard before, Dominic was sure, just as sure as he was that he’d never dare watch Master Boyd in the open, oh no, for though William was a patient man, pride eroded his manners at times, and he’d be much put out in knowing his manservant spent his free time watching him.

Watching in wonder.

His music seemed to take on shape and color, sometimes reflecting the weather, and in darker days delving into the depths of his soul, Dominic knew. The pain, the loss of a young wife and son, became so tangible that Dominic could all but shove a fist into his mouth and breathe deep, praying his overflowing emotion would never be heard.

Master William preferred to play in the late morning when the air was cool, under the warmth of the mid-morning sunshine, if there was any. His face would be half shadowed by the heavy velvet curtains, drapes the same color as William’s clear green eyes. Dominic thought it a cruel twist of fate and circumstance for William to have such beautiful eyes, such beautiful, _useless_ eyes.

And in the morning, Dominic would pull the drapes back in his chambers, softly greeting Master Boyd as he drew back his duvet and offered an arm of assistance to help the older man out of bed.

William never took his offer.

He’d slip his slim pale feet into his leather slippers and with practiced ease, find his robe and slip it across his frail shoulders, ready to face the day and wash away the horrors that’d gripped him the night before.

Because Dominic knew, with all the care of a man who’d loved him well that William seldom slept soundly. He’d cry out in terror, his body lurching forward as he’d grasp for shadow figures who’d left him long ago, left him to live with his grief and constricting loneliness, in his cold dark manor in the highlands.

Years ago, before the sickness had taken the wife and babe, years before Dominic had been hired on, Cook told him there had been lavish parties and golden candlelight. Master William married a wife of such beauty bards used to sing of, and though William never laid an eye on her, he knew she was spectacular, and loved to show her to society, ever pleased to hear their praise of her kind disposition and perfect grace.

William played the piano then too, for hours in the evening, while his wife would join him, snug in a warm chair near the fire, as she read or perhaps embroidered a bit. And when his fingers were numb, and the hour was late, he’d turn to her, lips curling into a sultry smile, and they’d rise, silent and content between them, only to fall in passion into his great bed.

The fruit of these nights came one winter’s morning, before the birds had even risen to see the day. A young boy with pale downy hair like his mother, and crisp green eyes like his father. William ran his fingertips across the face of the lad, mouth agape with awe. “Can he see?” He’d whispered, half choking his greatest fear, and the mid-wife had tested, pleased to see him respond, and then smiled her answer to the man. William had let the dam burst then, scooping the babe up in his arms, and trotting him down the hallway, whooping with his newfound joy. Joy, Cook said, that was bittersweet and short lived.

The Mistress had taken a Fever, and her face was sallow and drenched in sweat. Her bleeding failed to ebb, and some three days later, her body was a shell, ravaged by the sickness. And the boy had fallen ill too, his tiny body unfit to cope with the bitter cold of Scotland, and he died a scant few months after his mother, despite the desperate trip Master Boyd had taken south, to the warmer air and gentler climate. He returned, after his son had died, and carried the lad home in a simple wooden box, his heart numb and his soul shattered, too gone to even voice his pain.

He buried his young family beneath a delicate flowering tree that overlooked a pond and then withdrew to his house, never to keep company again.

It was only out of necessity he’d hired Dominic six months later, following the death of his faithful servant, Ian. Master Ian left shoes too big for young Dominic to fill; where Ian had grace and wit, Dominic had cheek and fire, traits which he’d kept secret from the Master, lest he prove to be a man who’d not appreciate his youthful indiscretions.

Dominic had fallen into the flow of the house rather nicely though, oft enjoying a romp in the glades with the beautiful Liv, or a stern game of chess with Master Jonathan, in the library hours before the Master would rise.

For one and twenty months he’d barreled through his duties and snuggled into the politics of staff, not realizing he’d been in the Manor for so long, and yet really didn’t know his master. What brand of man was he, and what need Dominic do to find out?

Preliminary spy-work proved reckless, as William was blind, but not deaf, and loved to remind the young man thus. For days Dominic slumped about the house, itching to unravel the mystery of William Boyd and grumping at his fellow staff, as they seemed reluctant to spill the Master’s secrets.

And then Dominic heard William play.

How he’d gone so long overlooking what William did in his parlor was beyond him, but the first morning he’d heard William settle in front of the piano and bloom with such a passion and fire he’d not deemed the man capable of, he’d felt something stir deep, clean down to his very soul, and knew he’d been captured, never to be found.

Thereafter he’d volunteered to tend to the Master in the morning, well capable of dealing with his curt beginnings, so long as he’d the gift of hearing his hands paint a picture once he’d settled at his bench. The infatuation turned unhealthy and heated for Dominic, driving him to distraction and quick releases in his small bed late night. He’d think of William stretched before him, face flush and glowing, as he loved him well and wholly, pouring over his emotions like a salve, his burgeoning love healing old hurts. The want and need to fix Master Boyd grew toxic, spilling into his veins and constricting his throat whenever he heard the steady mournful succession of notes carry though the fine halls, from mid-morning to late afternoon.

He’d swallow his disappointment and conviction, once William had exhausted himself, and Dominic would pull his limp frame from the bench, murmuring soft, worried words as he sat him in his favorite chair and made to feed him lunch. He always served hot foods as his hands dared to rub the man’s cold skin, hoping his own heat would pierce the coldness of William’s eyes, and bring him back.

“Come back, Master Boyd,” he’d whisper fretfully, as his long thumbs smoothed his paper-thin skin. “Please come back…to me.”

Countless moments would pass then, William’s face still as marble, but then something would thaw, and he’d blink a few times, his face hardening as he took in the indecency of their positions and frowned. Dominic was quick to pull away, before the moment turned sour, and with a clearing of his throat, he’d offer hot tea and a cucumber sandwich.

For some eighteen months the two progressed as such, until one morning Dominic began to notice a change.

William began to spend less time in the fog, his face etched in a ghost of a pain; instead he’d gently melt into awareness, and sensing Dominic’s sturdy presence, even graced the man with a new expression-a smile.

“Hullo, Dominic,” He’d taken to saying, and to the young man, the sound of his name wrapped up in such eloquent vowels and the edge of a burr, was like being reborn.

“Hullo, Master Boyd.” Dominic would reply, his face split into a million cracks and valleys, as he poured him a cup of tea.

That night Dominic grinned, as he settled into his thin bed, a glow washed over him more poignant than the realization of the first time he’d fallen in love.

Master Boyd knew him, smiled at him, and in Dominic’s mind, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Some weeks later, William’s music changed, having less low dips and valleys, and more chirping staccatos, and upswings, like the flight of a sparrow during mornings in the springtime. Some days the notes would take a fiery tone, the passion licking at Dominic’s throat like a heated caress, and Dominic would be driven to the lavatory to hold himself hard and bring himself to a quick, humiliating end. Hands would be wiped clean with practiced efficiency and he’d return to William’s parlor, ever glad the man was unable to see the blush across his cheeks and the glitter in his eye.

When the man’s body would fail him, overwrought with emotion and creative exhaustion, the cycle would continue again, with Dominic serving him, and William shyly engaging in a new activity with Dominic: conversation. He’d have Dominic describe the most mundane things, from the weather to the color Cook’s face turned when William had refused the pie he’d been served the night before. And sometimes, William’s face would turn foreign and he’d ask Dominic to describe himself.

“Tell me about your eyes, lad. And the color of your hair.”

The blood ran from Dominic’s face, and then he righted himself, coughing past his shock to answer. “Well, I’d say…I’d say my eyes are like a thin layer of rain clouds streaked across a blue sky…and my hair…dark and thick as the bark of the tree that overlooks the pond, Master Boyd.” His voice trailed off then, and dissolved into a mumble. “Nothing special, by any means.”

William smiled, his lips curling around a tea, and he mumbled, “I’d be inclined to disagree.”

Oh?

“Everyone is special, Dominic, a special color on a palette used to paint life.”

“Right, Master Boyd.” Dominic nodded, cheeks crimson.

“William, Dominic. Call me William.”

*

Several months later the winds came, sweeping in biting winter, as well as a thick blanket of snow, and Master Boyd grew distracted and cross. Oft his head would be beaded with sweat, and when Dominic would try to dry him he’d recoil from his touch, when some weeks before he’d tolerated, thanked him even, for the attention and care.

“Don’t _touch me,_ lad!” He’d gasped the day before, his thin fingers snapped around Dominic’s wrist like a vice, his eyes narrowed into slits.

Dominic felt the shock numb him, and he’d dropped the entire tea service, running clean out of the house and into the field below, as twisted and entangled as the weeds beneath him. He’d ruined it, ruined everything, and he’d pay now, with his job.

Except when he’d returned, Cook said nothing; no one did-they merely looked on sympathetically, and after a light meal suggested he go to bed. He was, after all, still on duty to tend to the Master come morning, as he’d been reminded.

The morning dawned slow and thick as honey, and Dominic dreaded every passing minute as he pulled on his clothes and presented himself to the day. He found that Elijah, the young driver, had left him a note informing him the master had risen early for a drive, and that he was expected to serve him tea at his usual time. Thus, the day progressed with an unusual monotony of chores, Dominic’s chest too tight and his stomach too twisted to dare venture to hear the man play. He’d wait until he was serving him to listen to the last few notes, as penance for his insolence the day before. When he arrived William was hunched over, panting as he paused, and then, as soon as Dominic’s soft footsteps disturbed the silence, William moved again, a haunting song blossoming in the room, complex and a touch tragic, like the shift of winter to spring time. Dominic was rooted in his place, hands trembling so that the cups chattered, and when William stopped, he let out a soft gasp, before staring blankly before him, hands still resting on the keys.

Sensing the man’s decision to remain where he was, Dominic poured the tea and carried the cup over to him, unsure if he should rest the cup on the top of the piano, or take William’s hand and guide him. The acid in his chest peaked and he could scarcely bring himself to look upon the man before him, who he loved despite his raging turmoil.

“Look at me, Dominic.” William rasped, his hands shaking as he shoved hair off his brow. “Look at me, and see me for the man I am, not the man you’d have me be.”

“Master Boyd—“

“And call me _William_ , Dominic, as you do in your sleep, when your body is tight and wanting me.”

Shock flared and shame; Dominic could choke for the storm brewing.

“Aye, I’ve watched you sleep, heh, as much as a blind man can, don’t you think? Pressed my fingertips onto your soft lips, and studied your face until—“ His hands, shaking, caressed the side of Dominic’s long face, past his raspy chin and strong brow. “Until I was sure I’d know your face, if I was to be able to see today.”

Their faces hovered a breath away from one another, each panting though neither had moved.

“I played each day, not knowing how you’d stolen my heart and captivated me. The song…it changed, I realized it this autumn, because now…now I no longer saw the ghost of the future I might have had. Now, all I see is you.”

Dominic choked, his hands still hovering inches from William’s skin, his fingers itching to feel the pressure of William’s flesh.

“I’m playing your song, Dominic. My opus. And I’m sorry for yesterday. You’ve taken me, lad, and I’ve wanted so bad I could set fire from the simplest of touch.”

 _Yes_ , Dominic wanted to shout, but he couldn’t, frightened and exhilarated as he was.

“Now, kiss me, lad, _bloody hell,_ put me out of my misery, quench this thirst for you that I have.”

Dominic leaned forward, his heart bursting with an inhuman joy as their lips met, soft at first then raw and unchecked with a mutual tension. Their bodies fit together perfectly, snug despite the discomfort of the sharp angles of the piano. They kissed until the sun moved, and their lips tingled with exertion and the want for more, and then William opened his eyes, and smiled _that smile_ as he’d done so many months before.

“You’ve saved me, lad.”

“No,” Dominic whispered against his brow, sneaking a delicate kiss. “We’ve saved each other.”

*

Though heat and want would have dictated Dominic have William as he’d dreamed, pure decency proved this to be unreasonable. William had ruminated over his love of Dominic for years; he’d not be galloping into bed with the lad simply because they’d spoken in his parlor and things had been sorted between them.

Sorted being a term used loosely, for Dominic wanted William now more than ever, and was weary of the poignant subtleties between them, clandestine gestures for fear of gossip and the reactions of the servants among them. Sometimes, William would show it by sweeping his index finger across the back of Dominic’s hand as he served him tea. Or he’d lean heavily into his body in the morning his arousal pressed hot and tempting into Dominic’s hip, both men regarding the open door and the nearest servant, wondering silently what could be done before they were found.

But their mutual patience and resolve persisted until it hung by a weak thread, ready to snap at a moment’s notice. Dominic feared he would be the one to cross the line, hungry for more kisses and fevered words, as well as the press of the older man’s body against him. Each morning as he served tea he’d hold his breath, praying he’d contain himself until he retired to his room that night to rid himself of the fever in his veins. Until one morning, William sent for tea, hunched over the piano in a posture Dominic had grown to fear, and ice ripped through is veins.

“Shut the door, Dominic.” He had growled, still unmoving and Dominic did as he was told, casting Miranda a worried look as he’d latched it. Had he done something wrong?

The question burned his tongue but he disregarded it, pouring the man a cup of tea as he leaned in close, to guide his hands to it. William seemed coiled and poised, and as soon as Dominic’s fingers touched his, he snapped, lips attaching to Dominic’s long neck, kissing and biting urgently, Dominic dropped the cup to the floor and it shattered. Both paused, a smile on their faces, as William lunged again, fingers covering inches of Dominic as their mouths fused and explored. His hips were snug against Dominic’s, leaning heavily into the sturdy piano, and on instinct Dominic spread his legs to allow for greater friction and heat. He could hardly breathe his need was so dizzying, and his hands clung to William, mind silently screaming, “Yes!”

His hands fell to William’s bum, tugging the smaller man closer in a disorderly voyage towards completion and release. Briefly his mind fluttered onto moving them to a chair, or more preferably a bed, but he knew it wouldn’t happen, they wouldn’t last, not in among the smoke and haze they were wrapped up in. His heels scraped against the floor, and his back dug into the piano, and William pressed harder, his hips rolling rhythmically into Dominic’s, sparks flying behind his eyes with every thrust.

They wouldn’t even manage to remove clothes at the rate they were going, all touches and fervent kisses, but Dominic couldn’t bring himself to care. His hands brushed against the firm ridge between them, his pressing into William’s, and then the two breathed heavily into the other’s ear, murmuring soft encouragement as they moved.

One day, Dominic would like to take William here atop the piano, have his legs wrapped around his waist so they could make love in the very place they’d fallen in love, but today, it was all he could do to keep on his feet, grinding into William as he was.

The pace moved to desperate and jerky, as their release loomed near, and then William clung to his jacket, half groaning into the crook of his neck as his body tensed and a warm, damp feeling saturated the pants between them. Dominic’s body reacted in kind, his own pants sticky and wet between his legs, and he threw his head back, shivering, as William slumped to the floor between him and the piano bench, his breath heavy and coming fast.

Dominic knew not what lie before them, and in that moment he was in awe of the force of such want and longing. Even now, as William rested cool fingers on his hand, in the first effort for Dominic to help him up from the ground. Neither could move. Never had he known a love like this. And nevermore would he.


End file.
